November is a grey month. And who can blame it. After all, the flamboyant colours of September and October are a hard act to follow. And while we wait for the first blanket of snow to brighten the landscape, we must make do with shades of grey. In defense of November, there’s a quiet calm about those misty mornings when the clouds settle over the monochromatic fields and flow into the sleeping valleys.

I have always loved misty mornings. I stand very still and feel the mist brushing against my cheeks as it gently swirls about, ebbing and flowing with the dawn breezes. Somehow, in the mist, in spite of the limited visibility, I don’t feel claustrophobic at all. I feel at one with nature, as she wraps me in her soft grey blanket and pulls me close.

The mist awakens wonder. In a landscape clouded by mist, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Landmarks appear, disappear then reappear as the mist drifts over the earth. In my imagination, the mist becomes the touch of some miasmic creature from a parallel universe, reaching out to me across barriers of time and space, beckoning me towards the portal to another fantastic world.

I love to walk the dogs on misty mornings. We walk slowly as they cast from side to side, searching for traces of other creatures. Now and then, they stop and sniff the air intently, inhaling lingering night scents, catching up on neighbourhood news. We dawdle, wandering along the shoulder of the road, kicking up leaves, gazing across the hills, enjoying one another’s company. By the time we return home, our surreal world is fading as the sun rises and warms the earth, chasing away the mist. The spell is broken. In the bright sunlight, it’s just another grey November morning.